A Change Would Do You Good
by Mercuria
Summary: [The Stepford Wives] Jerry decides to give Roger the Stepford Treatment. JerryRoger. Reviews muchly appreciated.


_Title: A Change Would Do You Good  
Author: Mercuria  
Fandom: The Stepford Wives  
Pairing: Jerry/Roger  
Rating: PG  
Archive: I'll marry you!  
Summary: Jerry decides to give Roger the Stepford Treatment.  
Disclaimer: Neither book, nor movie, nor other movie is mine.  
Notes: Thank you so, so much to my lovely beta-readers MissChamomile and Bodldops, without whom this fic would be nowhere-near-as-good as it is now._  
  
The problem was just that he was an embarrassment.  
  
No, that wasn't fair. He wasn't-- couldn't be-- Jerry wouldn't let himself think that way about him. But just as he would come to a place where he could accept Roger for who he was, stereotypical flaws and all, he'd **be** there, and all his flaws would overwhelm him. Sweet Roger with the ready wit became campy Roger with the Gucci shirts in lurid colors. Square-dancing, for the love of God!  
  
And God- that was something else. Was it too much for Roger to just come to church with him (no, no, looking like a normal human being)? It wasn't as if he were a Baptist or anything; Roger had no excuse not to at least make an effort. Jerry despised the way he would sit there on Sundays, drinking coffee (espresso!) and downing Prozac-and-God-knew-what-else, informing him that he, Jerry, had no right to affiliate himself with whatever political party he chose.   
  
Roger and his caustic wit, Roger and his feminine mystique. Jerry would have liked to think bitterly that this was not the man he fell in love with, but that wasn't true. He _had_ fallen for Roger, this Roger, despite his brightly colored clothes. He loved, hopelessly, the Roger of swaying hips and bubbly good spirits. When he would cringe in public as Roger related the tale of his personal odyssey-- finding a reliable hairdresser-- to all who would listen, it was for Roger as much as for himself. It was because Roger, impractical Roger, never saw, could never _see_, just how many people were repulsed by his flamboyant prancing. He didn't understand that so long as he kept it up, no one but Jerry would ever get past the femininity and prattle to the person he truly was, the person worth knowing. He didn't see; and if a year of couples' counseling couldn't change him, he was a lost cause.   
  
Or so Jerry had believed.   
  
There was a procedure, Mike had told him, that would solve Roger's problem. Completely painless, of course. No pain at all. The nanochips were implanted while the patient was under anaesthesia- nothing to worry about. No pain for pretty Roger, who wouldn't handle kitchen knives for fear of cutting himself. And just think, Mike had said, of the results. Roger's every fault corrected, every wrinkle in his personality ironed out. No more flamingo-pink blazers, no more blond highlights. No more watching "Queer Eye" or "What Not to Wear." A Roger who was all that he could be-- everything Jerry had so desperately needed him to be for so long.  
  
But what about side effects? The skeptical New Yorker in Jerry was sure that there had to be a catch. No catch, Mike assured him. He would get his perfect Roger, in peak physical condition-- had he just winked?-- and at no charge for the operation. All he had to do was bring him by the Men's Club on Friday, at oh, say, seven-thirty?   
  
Perfect.  
  
Mike hadn't said anything about obtaining Roger's consent before this miraculous operation. Jerry supposed that it was a given that he'd need to, and yet he couldn't bring himself to broach the subject. How _could_ he mention it, anyway, and still convince Roger to do it? How did anyone tell their lover that they were going to give them a mind-body-spirit makeover? That they just weren't good enough anymore?  
  
And so the days crawled by. There was Sunday, with Roger's usual lack of church-going-- only this time, he spent the day with Joanna and the Markowitz woman. In equal parts jealous and guilty, Jerry snapped at him when he returned, leading to a fight that had probably been a long time coming. Jerry said enough of what he wanted to say without bringing up Mike's fabulous procedure, and that was more than enough for Roger. Monday passed in silence: Roger was sulking, and Jerry was brooding. Tuesday, Roger attempted a makeup. He was understanding and sincere, talking about the decision he'd made to _try_ to be different, for Jerry's sake-- but he was wearing the shirt with the loud floral pattern, and Jerry pushed him away. Wednesday heralded the return of their Cold War, although in Roger's case it featured a good deal of sarcastic remarks, and the inevitable slipping off in the early afternoon to Joanna's. Jerry thought about him as the golden, fading sun lit the empty house, and when Roger returned, Jerry kissed him hard and dragged him to bed without a chance to grab his Prozac. That was the situation Thursday: the afterglow of makeup sex, a fragile reconstruction of tender feelings. Roger donned his most sensible shirt-- one of Jerry's-- and tried to be interested in The Wall Street Journal. It was an endearingly miserable failure, and in it Jerry saw Roger's inability to change on his own. He needed the help, Jerry reasoned, Jerry rationalized. But still he held back.  
  
And then it was seven o'clock Friday evening. Roger was in the kitchen, attempting to cook dinner yet again. (There was Lean Cuisine in the freezer in the event of another culinary disaster; Jerry had seen to it.) In a white apron bearing the multicolored words, "KISS THE QUEER," he bustled about, clanging pots and pans in a very important-sounding manner. Jerry, as usual, was not amused.   
  
"Roger ..." he said, trying to get his attention. "ROGER ..."  
  
He looked up from his clanging, head tilted slightly to one side. Sweet. Coquettish. Inescapably effeminate. With a sardonic quirk to his lips, he said, "Yes, dear?"  
  
How to convince him to do it? How to assuage the guilt that was still pricking at him? Jerry cleared his throat, buying time. Roger frowned, but didn't say anything, and Jerry wondered briefly what he was thinking.  
  
When Jerry spoke, he didn't say what he'd thought he was going to say-- some lame excuse about going over to the Men's Club. Instead, what came out was, "Hey, if you could change anything about me ... a habit you didn't like ... would you do it?"  
  
"You ask me that after the week we've had?" Roger quipped. His expression softened. "Hey ... I know things are rough between us (especially now that it's a four-hour commute to the nearest counselor), but ... you know how much I love you, don't you?"  
  
He came around the counter and wrapped his arms around Jerry from behind. He stayed there for a moment, chin resting on Jerry's shoulder. Jerry felt a strange sort of numbness, barely registering that Roger was wearing some kind of fruity cologne.  
  
"Of course," he said faintly.  
  
"Then again," Roger continued with a grin, "if it'd de-Republicanize you, I might consider sending you for reeducation."  
  
Oh, would he, now? Jerry had to admit to himself that he hadn't been expecting that. He never thought that _Roger_ would contemplate for an instant trying to change _him_. It didn't matter that he was mainly joking; Roger, dear saintly Roger, wanted him to change. It was disappointing, in a way, and also strangely liberating. If they both wanted the other to be different, he thought with heady certainty, why shouldn't at least one of them get his wish?   
  
Jerry slipped out of Roger's embrace and stood up. Roger looked at him in surprise.  
  
Keeping his voice light and casual-- don't ask him how-- Jerry said, "Well, then ... Rog ... want to go out tonight?" 


End file.
